


Would It Be A Sin

by anaeifly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale makes Crowley nervous (Good Omens), Crowley Calls Aziraphale 'Angel' (Good Omens), Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Elvis Presley songs, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of Elvis Presley Songs, No beta we die like mne, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but which one of them has them?, fair warning i wrote this on 3 hours of sleep, probably both tbh, seriously, the fluffiest fluff to ever fluff, this may be the sappiest thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 18:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaeifly/pseuds/anaeifly
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are planning their wedding, and Aziraphale needs Crowley's help picking their first dance song. Mild angst and a whole lot of fluff ensues. Ineffable Husbands, PG.





	Would It Be A Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there everyone! First time GO fic writer here. I can't believe this is the fic I'm starting with, tbh, but what can you do. The muse is a fickle bitch of a mistress. Anyway. I conceived this idea yesterday and spent a good portion of today writing it because I just couldn't let it go. I hope you all like it.  
Also, in case anyone is thinking of asking: no, I will not write a wedding fic. Sorry in advance.  
~ana

Aziraphale and Crowley have been absorbed in wedding planning for several hours now, and Crowley is starting to wonder why all of this matters so much.

Well. That’s not entirely accurate. _ Aziraphale _ is utterly absorbed in the wedding planning, and Crowley is utterly absorbed in watching him. He can’t help himself; Aziraphale is so clearly enjoying it, so clearly _ passionate _about it, that he has trouble tearing his attention away from him—which does not necessarily translate to focusing on what he’s actually saying. 

As such, it takes him a moment to recognize that Aziraphale has directed a question at him. He blinks. “Beg your pardon?”

Aziraphale tries not to smile and fails miserably. “Sorry, darling, I know I’ve been going on quite a bit. I just wanted your opinion on one thing and then we can be done for now. Maybe go to lunch?” His voice goes up just slightly towards the end, turning his tone hopeful, and it’s Crowley’s turn to bite back a smile. 

“‘Course,” he says. He leans back in his chair, regarding Aziraphale, who looks suddenly a bit nervous, for some reason. He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Well.” Aziraphale fidgets for a moment, looks down at the table. A few seconds pass before he looks back up. “I was just wondering if you had any thoughts about...our first dance?”

Crowley feels his brow furrow in confusion. “I suppose we have to have one, don’t we?” he says after a moment, feeling like he’s missing something but unsure of how to ask what it might be. “I mean, how could we have a second or third or anything if we don’t have a first one?”

Aziraphale bites his lip. “No, no,” he says. He pauses. “I meant—typically, for a wedding, the first dance is special, only for the couple...and usually they pick a special song, just for that.” Another pause, another quick glance away and back. “Do you...have any ideas?”

Crowley has no idea what is happening. His mouth is dry and all of a sudden he’s having trouble looking at Aziraphale and he’s not even sure _ why _ . He swallows and tries to think. _ You’re My Best Friend _by Queen comes to mind, and he thinks it’s fairly appropriate and that Aziraphale would probably be fine with it, but something tells him it’s not romantic enough. It might be instinct, it might be shitty self-esteem—who can say?—but he’s certain it’s true. 

After a long moment, Crowley manages to meet Aziraphale’s gaze again. “No,” he says finally, carefully. “I don’t think so.” He gnaws on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Do you?”

To his great surprise, Aziraphale flushes deeply at his question. He unconsciously twists the ring on his pinky finger. “Well,” he says, his voice very nearly a squeak. Crowley feels his eyebrows practically meet his hairline, and Aziraphale’s blush somehow manages to deepen. He clears his throat. “I...do have one idea, yes.”

Silence descends on them. Crowley is still too baffled and panicked in equal measure to have any idea how to deal with it, and Aziraphale must be feeling similarly, because it lingers for what seems to be a very long time. 

Finally Crowley clears his throat. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

The question has the intended effect—Aziraphale smiles slightly, and rather shyly. “I think I would prefer to show you, actually.” He stands and holds out his hand to Crowley. 

Crowley takes it and allows himself to be led downstairs, to the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop. Once they’re in the middle of the room, Aziraphale gives his hand a gentle squeeze and then lets it go, leaving Crowley suddenly standing alone. He watches with intense curiosity as Aziraphale crosses the room, opens a cabinet, and pulls out a record player. He places it on the coffee table and goes back to the cabinet and pulls out a record that Crowley can’t see and puts it in. Finally he comes back over to Crowley, the shy look still on his face as he takes Crowley’s hand again. Crowley removes his glasses with his free hand; at this point they’re doing nothing more than hindering the view. 

“I must say, I don’t actually know much about dancing, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, looking at Crowley through his lashes. “So if I step on your feet, I—”

“S’fine, angel,” Crowley interrupts, running his thumb over Aziraphale’s wrist in a way he knows will both soothe him and give him pleasure. Sure enough, Aziraphale’s eyelashes flutter for a moment, and he takes a deep, steadying breath before truly looking at Crowley again. Crowley smiles, feeling the softness of it on his face, changing the shape of it. “We can take lessons,” he adds. “Lots of people do, for their weddings.” 

Moving slowly, Crowley lightly takes Aziraphale’s free hand with his own and places it on his shoulder, then places his own hand on Aziraphale’s waist and raises their joined hands. “But this’ll work for now, I think.” 

Aziraphale stares at him, seemingly enchanted—by Crowley. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, but it still makes heat rise in Crowley’s cheeks, makes him feel as though he’s receiving a gift that’s too monumental for him to ever be able to deserve. Unable to stop himself, he slips his hand back a bit so it’s resting at the small of Aziraphale’s back, savoring the way his angel’s breath hitches just slightly when he does it.

Aziraphale responds more quickly than he would have expected, hand sliding unhesitatingly up to the base of Crowley’s neck, fingers tangling gently in the short hairs there, and Crowley has to expend a frankly absurd amount of effort to keep himself from moaning aloud. Instead he takes a step forward, pulling Aziraphale close enough to him that their chests are touching, and lightly rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale sighs, his eyes closing, and Crowley takes a moment to breathe him in, to re-memorize his scent—paper and old books and honeyed tea mixed with the smell of the air just before a thunderstorm that’s almost more a feeling than a smell. He could stay like this all day, he thinks, just holding Aziraphale, letting himself be surrounded by him. It’s an incredibly tempting impulse, to be honest.

Out of nowhere, Aziraphale’s eyes snap open. “I forgot to start the record,” he says, sounding like he might be mentally rolling his eyes at himself. Crowley chuckles and pulls back just enough to kiss Aziraphale lightly, snapping his fingers in the direction of the record player as he does. 

“So impatient,” Aziraphale murmurs against his lips, but it lacks any chastising tone. He draws back from Crowley a little, so they seem more like they might be dancing rather than just making out like teenagers, just as the music starts to play. 

Crowley recognizes the music immediately, and he looks down at Aziraphale, brow furrowed in surprise. “You like Elvis, angel?” He remembers belatedly that they are in fact supposed to be dancing and starts to turn them carefully, but his eyes don’t leave Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale blushes under the intensity of Crowley’s gaze, and Crowley would be enjoying that immensely were he not so ridiculously curious. “Not exactly,” he says. Crowley quizzically quirks one eyebrow at him, and he sighs, dramatic as always. 

“If you _ must _ know,” he continues, a faint sarcastic edge to his voice that makes Crowley smirk, because his angel really is _ such _a bastard sometimes, “my record player broke in 1963, and I had to have it repaired properly because I haven’t the faintest idea how to do that sort of thing myself, and I decided to give listening to the radio a go.” He pauses, looks down, and takes a deep breath before meeting Crowley’s gaze again. “This was the second song that came on, and I was...quite overcome by how much it reminded me of you.” His hand tightens around Crowley’s. 

The room is silent except for the sound of Elvis’s voice. _ Take my hand, take my whole life too... _

Crowley’s heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest. He knows, implicitly, what Aziraphale is keeping to himself—he cried over it. Over _ Crowley. _How ludicrously unfair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, trying very hard to resist the urge to hide his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale’s expression softens in some indefinable, _ ineffable _ way, and he leans in a bit to press a kiss to Crowley’s temple. “Oh, darling, no,” he says softly, his voice so tender it may actually be killing Crowley. “Don’t be. It wasn’t _ your _fault. You’ve never been anything but perfectly kind to me, you know that.” 

Crowley reflexively opens his mouth to protest, but before he can even make a sound Aziraphale has moved so they are once again looking each other directly in the eyes. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, but there is a definite fire in his eyes that screams of Heaven and that Crowley isn’t even sure how to react to. 

“Crowley,” he says, low and so serious he almost sounds dangerous. “It _ wasn’t _ your fault. Stop blaming yourself, _ please _ .” He sighs heavily, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks more normal. He stares at Crowley. “You have to understand, I simply...I loved you _ so much _, and I felt so incredibly helpless, and hearing this song somehow made me unable to simply push those thoughts away as I so often used to.” His lips twitch upwards ever so slightly. “If anything, the experience was cathartic. It was what made me decide to get you the holy water, you know.” 

Crowley blinks in surprise, his mouth opening and closing uselessly several times before he can speak. “Really?” 

Aziraphale really does smile at that. “Yes. I thought I could still make you happy, even if I couldn’t do it by being with you. Even though I never stopped thinking it was a terrible idea.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Crowley replies without really thinking. Aziraphale laughs, but it’s a short-lived thing. 

“You know the only reason I didn’t want to give it to you in the first place was that I was worried you would use it for...well, you know. Don’t you?” Aziraphale’s words all tumble out in a bit of a rush. 

For a second, Crowley is back in St. James Park in 1862, replaying and reconsidering Aziraphale’s reaction to his request for the millionth time. He nods. “Yeah, I do.” He sacrifices his grip on Aziraphale’s hand in order to wind it around him, pulling him in almost impossibly close. He rests his head lightly at the juncture of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, nose pressed to the side of his neck, inhaling his sweet, perfect scent again. “Can’t really say I blame you,” he mumbles, and hears Aziraphale’s sharp inhale at the feeling of Crowley’s breath on his skin. 

Aziraphale’s hand moves further into his hair, massaging his scalp gently, so _ fucking _perfectly. “No?” 

Crowley makes an attempt at a shrug, fails, and somewhat reluctantly straightens himself up again. “I mean. If the situation had been reversed, if you’d asked me for something that could’ve killed you, I think I’d’ve reacted pretty much the same. Still would, actually.” He strokes Aziraphale’s cheek. “‘I am to see to it that I do not lose you.’ Again.” 

Aziraphale smiles at that, and Crowley just can’t not kiss him. Can’t not rake his nails down Aziraphale’s back in the way he knows will make him moan quietly into Crowley’s mouth. 

After a moment, Crowley pulls back, not even bothering to attempt to hide his smugness when Aziraphale lets a low whine and automatically tries to follow him. He runs his thumb over Aziraphale’s lips, wordlessly asking for just a handful more seconds of attention. “You know, I think you were right, angel. This is a perfect first dance song.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile is so radiant it seems as if he’s actually glowing. “Wonderful, my dear,” he says in a voice overflowing with love, and Crowley thinks his heart might actually burst.

They don’t end up going out to lunch that day, but it’s perfectly all right. They have forever for that. Crowley will make absolutely certain of it.


End file.
